


Dark Doom, Honey, I Follow You

by novak



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Blow Jobs, Consensual, Doomed Relationship, Drunk Sex, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Prompt Fill, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:45:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novak/pseuds/novak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will hears a song when he's out drinking alone, and has a sudden epiphany involving his feelings for Hannibal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Doom, Honey, I Follow You

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [this prompt](http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/1847.html?thread=1392439) at the [Hannibal Kinkmeme. ](http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/)

He’s had too much whiskey for one night, but as he calls the bartender over again, the thought is chased out of his mind – it wasn’t really important, anyway. This is therapy, a different kind of therapy to the one he is familiar with, but it soothes his addled mind all the same.  
Another two fingers of amber whiskey means another hour he can forget the ache in his chest he’s grown to associate with his psychiatrist. It wouldn’t be so unnerving if he were able to read Hannibal in the same way that Hannibal reads him. Will feels like a map sprawled across a dining table, with Doctor Lecter’s fingers following the roads of his veins and the topography of his bones. He’s an expanse of pale skin in front of the doctor, with a complex brain that is penetrated again and again by the his analytical skill, and he doesn’t like it, not really. He feels vulnerable.  
But, unfortunately for him, this isn’t what the feeling is associated with. It has taken Will weeks to even consider the idea that it is _longing_ that he feels, that he wishes to be emotionally and perhaps even physically close with Doctor Lecter. There’s something frightening about it. It’s not the way he wished to kiss Alana; it’s not a childish crush. This feels dangerous. 

It’s like fishhooks are buried in each of his ribs, their threads connected to Hannibal’s fingertips, and he’s lost all control of himself. He’s forced to move with the ebb and flow of Hannibal; always wanting to follow but never sure if he’s allowed. Always wanting more, but never sure how to ask. He’s come here, to a smoky bar on the edge of the highway between Quantico and Baltimore, in an attempt to escape. His phone is turned off and he doesn’t care if Jack needs him, not right now, even if it means a dose of verbal abuse the next time he sees him. He needs a day off, a day away from the blood, and the guts, and the nightmares that follow without fail. 

Everything is hazy with the warmth of alcohol as it throbs away in his throat, and as he leans against the bar, he wishes he wasn’t alone. He turns some in his seat, eyeing the other patrons and while the bar is somewhat busy, it looks as though every lap is taken and every hand is held by another. His chest gives a tug where Hannibal’s ties lay deep in the marrow of his bones, and he huffs quietly, sips his whiskey, and slumps against the bar with his chin digging into the palm of his hand.  
He’s vaguely aware of what’s happening around him, like the woman with the frayed blue jeans who struts to the jukebox, blonde hair swishing over her shoulder as she smiles and winks at whom is presumably her boyfriend. 

She changes it to a song he hasn’t heard before. It begins with a whistle that sends a shudder down Will’s spine. Another modest mouthful of whiskey, a lick of his lips, and he begins to listen. 

The first line leaves the vocalist’s mouth and Will’s chest tightens considerably. 

_Oh, I beg you: can I follow?  
Oh, I ask you: why not always?_

He feels like he wants to vomit, but squashes the mental reflex down by sucking down the last of his whiskey and calling the bartender over with a flicker of his fingers. He gets a cider this time, the glass bottle cold against his mouth where he nurses from it. He presses the slippery label against his cheek, trying desperately not to listen to the song that reminds him so much of Hannibal but finding himself hopelessly unable to ignore it. 

_I follow, I follow you. Deep sea, baby, I follow you. I follow, I follow you. Dark doom, honey, I follow you. He’s a message, I’m the runner…_

He forces himself to stop. He tips his head back, throat working furiously to down at least half of his cider before he stops, nose wrinkling with the burning fizz and stomach revolting against the chilled liquid and the knowledge that he is quite possibly _in love_ with his slightly creepy and all too charming psychiatrist.  
He’s not sure what to do with the newfound information and so he studies the grain of the wood the bar is made from, wondering how old the tree was before they cut it down and thinking that it’s the kind of classy, aged furniture Hannibal probably has in his house. 

A pulse of his heart, a shaky inhale, and Will turns to leave after throwing down money for his drinks. He needs to get out of here and deal with this on his own.  
He’ll call a cab home, maybe jog here in the morning with Winston if he isn’t too hung-over and then, as he turns in his seat, he spots him. 

Just walking through the door, hair neatly parted, and tie ever-straight, and Will’s heart goes into overdrive. He thinks he might send himself into cardiac arrest but he knows that’s ridiculous; he’s behaving like a schoolgirl. Embarrassment and drunkenness flare in his cheeks, a deep red, and he ducks his head when Hannibal spots him and begins to approach. He didn’t want to be caught like this, not by anybody. He’s too drunk for his own good, unable to function, and here comes the man who may or may not _own_ him.  
“Will,” Hannibal greets, and he sounds pleasantly surprised. He reaches out, cups Will’s shoulder in a warm, friendly gesture. Will’s nostril’s flare nervously in response. “I did not expect to see you here, so far from home. Are you leaving?” 

He knows he has to look up now. He tries to smile and manages a wobbly grimace, nodding and chewing the inside of his cheek out of nervous habit. “I’ve, uh. I’ve had a bit too much to drink, I’m afraid.”  
Hannibal smiles at him like it’s endearing that he lacks self-control and suddenly he wishes the earth would swallow him whole. “Would you like a ride home? I don’t believe you are in a state to drive.”  
Guilt rockets through his system; he can’t make Hannibal do that. He’s not sure he could handle being in a car with Hannibal for an hour, anyway. He shakes his head, lips pursing for a moment as he tries to gather his thoughts before he opens his mouth, “I couldn’t ask that of you. I’ll… I’ll just take a, uh, cab ‘nd I’ll get my car in the morning.” 

Hannibal tuts like he’s talking to a stubborn child, moving an arm behind Will and touching the small of his back with warm fingers to coax him forward, towards the door. “Nonsense, Will. I can take you home, it’s no bother.”  
“You only just got here,” he protests, but his voice is small and weak because Hannibal is _touching_ him, easing him outside, holding him steady when he stumbles with the weight of his new boots.  
“Don’t fret. The person I was looking for isn’t here; I was a little late, I suppose. The rest of my night is free.” Hannibal doesn’t reveal that the person he was looking for was intended to be his next meal. 

Will doesn’t bother arguing anymore after that, because his mind has become preoccupied once more. He falls characteristically silent as Hannibal ushers him towards his car, turning towards him at the last minute. Hannibal is only two or three inches taller than him, but he feels small and weak in comparison. He grips the lapels of Hannibal’s coat to steady himself. 

“Hannibal,” he says, but it comes out as more of a slur. Hannibal smiles, says nothing, nodding in acknowledgement while he straightens Will’s glasses where they’ve fallen crooked on the bridge of his nose. “I would like you to take me home. To yours.” And then, before he really knows what he’s doing, he’s arching up onto his toes and firmly kissing his psychiatrist. 

It’s when Hannibal kisses back that Will is sure he’s fallen asleep in a drunken sprawl at the bar and doesn’t really have the good doctor’s hand sliding into his hair.

-

The drive to Hannibal’s home is torturous for many reasons, but mostly because Will is half-hard in his pants at least seventy per cent of the time and there’s nothing he can do about it; he won’t destroy his dignity further by grinding his palm against himself, not where Hannibal will chuckle low and knowing and _smug._

Will’s mouth still tingles from his kisses.

-

They finally get to Hannibal’s apartment and Will’s trying to sober up, breathing deep, jogging on his toes (much to Hannibal’s amusement) outside the apartment door.  
Hannibal’s home is somewhat small but lavishly furnished and Will tries to file away the notion of snooping for later, when he isn’t horny and drunk with Hannibal Lecter’s hand down his pants.

They don’t even make it to the bedroom, Will instead trying to tell Hannibal that he wants him to sit down, that he wants to blow him. 

It takes a moment of mumbled explanations, of Will blushing and muttering, “I want to suck your cock,” three times before he says it loud enough that Hannibal can hear before he has the psychiatrist sinking down into his plush couch, long thighs spread open with Will nestled in between. He still can’t believe this is real as he leans in close, practically salivating as he mouths Hannibal’s cock through his expensive slacks. 

Hannibal has to undo the fly for him - his fingers are shaky and slow – but his embarrassment on the matter is quickly forgotten when the swell of Hannibal’s brief-clad dick protrudes deliciously from the ‘v’ of his open slacks.  
“Take them off,” he says, and it’s almost a childish pout because goddammit, why did he drink so much? Hannibal smiles and clucks quiet laughter beneath his breath as he pushes his slacks down and off, left in white underwear that outlines the shape of his cock, and navy-blue socks. He doesn’t notice the sock-suspenders at first but, when he does, slides a finger through the elastic and releases it so that it slaps against Hannibal’s shin. They share a grin, nervous and breathless and alight with arousal, before Will realises what he’s doing on his knees in the first place. 

He presses in close, snug in the vertex of Hannibal’s thighs, and he doesn’t bother teasing; he drags his underwear out of the way, licking his lips and _yes_. Hannibal’s cock is modestly sized, uncut and beautiful, velvet-soft beneath his hand as he pulls it into his mouth.  
He’s sloppy and wet with his technique but Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind – judging by the way his hand finds Will’s hair and strokes through it, the other touching Will’s cheek, sometimes the glistening stretch of his upper lip when he deepthroats him. He doesn’t last long, but Will doesn’t need him to last long; he’s too drunk to keep going and he doesn’t care, he just wants to taste him, to have the good doctor unravel at his touch instead of vice versa. 

Hannibal grunts a warning and Will hollows his cheeks in response, tongue teasing along the prominent vein that pulses along the underside of Hannibal’s erection. He closes his lips around the hypersensitive head, pressing his tongue through the hollow of his slit, and Hannibal growls a low, guttural noise that comes with a wet, salty spurt of come across Will’s palate. He swallows him down as he feels his own cock lurch in his trousers, pulsing with a spent orgasm and fuck, that’s embarrassing. He _mewls_ around Hannibal’s cock as he comes in his pants like a virgin teenager, pulling away when Hannibal is spent to lean back on his hands, legs apart and knees pressed to the front of the couch. 

“Do you need me to—“ Hannibal starts, and Will shakes his head vigorously before letting it loll back against his shoulders, boneless. 

Hannibal ignores the way his cock gives an interested twitch with the knowledge that Will came untouched, while Will sinks down onto his back, bone-tired, thinking about Hannibal and his plump lips and warm smile and the way he sets off butterflies in the bottom of his belly. 

This is the beginning of a good thing, he thinks, even if everything he takes part in is doomed by default.


End file.
